Journal: August 31. Cleaning and Digging

Taking advantage of Johnny's back hoe and truck, the first task of the day was addressing the garbage and debris, which despite my best efforts to cart out weekly remove my weekly township allotment of household garbage to the end of the road, has been steadily accumulating since my arrival.

The gathering of garbage

It didn't take long for the four of us (again, with the aid of the back hoe--particularly useful for toilet and roof tile removal) to completely clear the area.  Since I have to admit to having vague fears that I would turn into the kind of person whose yard was a collecting ground for all sorts of historic treaures, the whole thing is a great relief.  Even managed to get rid of the horrid blue bedroom rug that I'd successfully rolled up yesterday.  Halleluljah!

W

The Loading.

Who would have guessed this emptiness would be so rewarding?

The day was heating up.  I retreated downstairs and then in succession to the air-conditioned library where I returned piles of books on porches and siding, to the air-conditioned diner where I happily ate a deluxe hamburger and to the air-conditioned homegoods store where I bought another rag rug, a little bamboo mat for the bathroom and a springform cake pan.  Apples, pears and coffee from the un-air-conditioned Windy Brow farms, then home to find George, Chris and Johnny gone for the day.  Lots of work in my absence.  Plywood on Porch and due to grading, removal of grass in  back yard. No mowing for a while, but still, some absences are less appealing than others. 

No Grass in Backyard

More porch than not.

 

No Trace of Garbage Pile.

Journal: August 25. Rain, taxes and boeuf bourguignon.

Another very rainy day.  No work.  I took my mysterious tax forms to the Township Office.  All things were clarified (though I certainly cannot repeat the explanations) and I paid the property taxes for this quarter.

Lentini's farm stand, where I'd thought I might by a thing or two,  was closed--so straight to Weiss's.

I'd bought stew  meat at Ideal Farms last week.  Ideal Farms was the name of the dairy --consisting of many barns, many cows, many milkers, owned by Jacob Tanis, when I was growing up.  We used to play in the barn closest to us on Route 206.  Sometimes the milkers would let us milk the cows.  I think I remember when they began to introduce milking machines.

The barns and dairy cows are long gone, replaced by car dealers and gas stations.  But, one of the Tanis children runs a vegetable and food stand at Ross's Corner where they sell organic meat.  There was some switching, I think, from dairy to cattle raising--though comparatively, it is very small scale.  In any case, I couldn't resist buying meat there and given the first stew-ish weather of the summer, today was the perfect day to make it. I just needed a quick visit to Weiss's to buy vegetables and milk and other staples as Sam and Carrie will be coming tomorrow.

I'd thought I'd make a very simple stew, but inspired by my new Le Creuset, the bottle of good wine given by an appreciative fisherman,  and a little internet browsing, I'd switched gears, going so far as to buy pearl onions for a more or less proper boeuf bourguignon. I had a fine time chopping and sauteeing this gray afternoon.  It gets to rest tonight--- I'll finish it tomorrow.

The meat simmered, the rains stopped, and I walked around the lake.  Just before dusk, the sun appeared and the water reflected both swans and house.  

Journal: August 24. Porch work. Taxes.

chaos and progress, porch with petunias

Gray and chilly.  George and Chris working on porch.  It doesn't look like much, but the concrete has hardened and posts are in place.  We are definitely moving towards something. 

I finally received my  invitation to Lena ad Julian's wedding--the second one--the first is still in postal limbo.
On the way back from the post office, I decided to investigate a hand-written sign announcing vine-ripened tomatoes.  Driving up a long driveway from 206, I found series of buildings perched on a ridge, a house, a greenhouse, sheds, etc.   The owner seemed surprised at my arrival and happily sold me all the tomatoes on his table for $2.00.  There were four or five pounds-- quite a haul.  And this morning, George delivered a care package from his garden--light green frying peppers, a white eggplant and a pint or so of perfect cherry tomatoes. Produce galore.

It was a big mail day.  My post office box is often empty, but today, in addition to the wedding invitation, I received my tax bill from the township.  It was relatively incomprehensible;  tomorrow I'll go in and have it explained.   

The ground is very wet, so although Johnny (Johnny, the grader, not Johnny, George's assistant)   came by with his excavating machine,   it was  decided they had to wait and  grade on another drier day. 

The rains continued off and on.  George and Chris left.  I walked around the lake, then up the hill towards the road and wandered into the neighboring field, now covered with Queen Anne's Lace

Journal: August 23. Sealing windows. Recurring mice?

The day did not begin auspiciously.  After months of no signs of visiting mice, the kitchen counter was drizzled with mouse drippings.  I began opening drawers and cabinet doors, thinking it was time to set traps once again (oh--I do hate that trap setting--to say nothing of checking in the morning to see what was caught.   But no need for traps.  At least not immediately.  The mouse visitor, perhaps shocked by his success had dropped dead of his own volition--though not before making some inroads into building a new nest (i'd gotten rid of much mouse housing in the past months--but looks like it's a never-ending battle).  Since Chris was working downstairs, I asked him to perform disposal duties-leaving me only with clean-up chores.

kitchen open to the world

Rain again.  And dropping temperatures.  This should please me, cranky as I was with all that heat,  but I've now begun to worry about heating the house as the temperature falls.

As part of the porch restoration project, George boarded up the kitchen window--there was never much light coming through, but in these porchless days, there was actually sunlight.  No more.

plywood window treatment

cinder blocks sealing windows

One good piece of kitchen news.  When Willie the electrician was working on some re-wiring at the end of May, he discovered some wires eaten by animals, and as a precaution he suggested moving the refrigerator to another outlet.  This meant, that for the past several months, the refrigerator was sitting in the middle of the doorway--all its rusting wiring bared to the world.  Today, I asked Willie if it had to remain there.  He couldn't remember why it was there in the first place, so it's now returned to its original corner.  Now that there is zero light in the kitchen, it's probably time to start imagining what it might be like to move the kitchen upstairs.  While Willie worked on the wiring, Chris was really sealing up the downstairs windows--part of the plan to keep the downstairs snug and dry (if dark).

Journal: August 22nd. Pouring Rain. Swan Attrition.

A seriously rainy Sunday.   Late morning, it looked like the rain was letting up.   Hoping to take a walk, I headed out.  Distracted by a bit of petunia pruning, it soon became apparent that my weather estimates were all wrong.  The rain resumed, but remembering the wonders of umbrellas, I headed out in high galoshes with black umbrella unfurled.

Oh--the lives of swans are more perilous than imagined.  When I arrived here, there were two adult swans, and four tiny cygnets.  I thought there were four, but can't swear to it, and a few days later, there were only three.  The swan family did fine for many weeks, the babies growing into adolescent swans (is there such a thing?  almost full grown, but cygnet gray, not white like their parents).  One day, I noticed their numbers had been reduced again.  Now just two cygnets and two parent.

A few weeks later, Logan reported that one of the parent swans was floating dead on the water.  The next morning, it was gone.  Most likely the victim of a snapping turtle, though I don't recall a parent swan ever being killed, Dave, the engineer says a turtle could bite its leg and it would slowly bleed to death.

last two swans in rain

 
We were down to one parent (mother or father, I cannot say) and two cygnets making their sad circles about the lake. Of course, the experts say the swans don't really belong here.  They're not natives and drive off other bird-life.  Over the years, I've sometimes seen a vicious swan rage, but all those calm circles are quite successful at erasing those memories.
Today, another cygnet is missing. Walking around the lake in the rain, I saw only one parent, and one cygnet.   Native or not.  Aggression notwithstanding, it's not easy being a swan in this lake nowadays. 

Apples from our tree

The deer and the bears, on the other hand, are thriving.  Saw a deer eating apples beneath the old apple tree.  Hoping to try some before the bears get them,  I picked a few myself.  Most are quite misshapen and worms have been happily working their way through them, but they were surprisingly  crisp, tart and delicious.  Who would have guessed?

Apples made a fine conclusion to the meal I made from yesterday's purchases.  Two of the chicken wings, moist and meaty, infused with Chinese five spices, and gorgeously glazed and potato salad with purslane, radishes, scallions, and a dash of mint--with a vinaigrette using garlic from my local organic garlic grower.

Journal: August 21. More Mad Men. Union Square. Lower East Side. Chinatown.

After a fine night on Regina's comfortable couch woke up with coffee and two more episodes of Mad Men, bringing me completely up-to-date.   Began my catch-up just before leaving Los Angeles in May in a great Mad Men orgy.  I'd missed the first three seasons, but thanks to the Venice Abbott Kinney branch of the Los Angeles Public Library.  They had almost complete sets of all three seasons-the few they were missing, I could order from other branches in a triumph of library work.  I did love those DVD's with their very serious add-on documentaries about The Women's Movement, The Civil Rights Movement, The Port Huron Statement, and more.

No Bonus add-ons for this gi--it's set in 1964--where will they begin? 

Just as were about to leave,  Sarah and Sam called from Long Island.  Betty Jacoby, 94, is in the hospital in Riverhead--rushed there in the middle of the night--so great concern all around.  Oy.

With all the tv watching, phone calling,  and worrying, it was almost one  before we left the house.  Regina is a great shopper and browser of flea markets and had read that the Hester Street Flea Market on the Lower East Side had excellent food vendors as well.  I was too hungry to wait, so en route, Regina obliged me with a stop at an  Italian butcher and deli on Bloomfield Avenue where I got an eggplant parmigian sandwich to tide me over (she had a chicken cutlet--no sandwich--much neater and trimmer).  I later realized that I could have had a hamburger across the street at the ice cream parlor where the last episode of the Soprano's was shot  (a steady stream of tourists stops by to snap pictures), but I will do that another time.

Traffic was terrible at the Lincoln Tunnel.  Not clear why.  As we we drove downtown we had to stop at the Union Square Green Market.  I've always thought that the Farmers Markets in Santa Monica and the Ferry Building in San Francisco were about as exuberant as you could get, but mid-August in Union Square with its grand displays of tomatoes, corn, herbs, enormous beets and radishes and all sorts of lettuces, herbs, jams, honeys, etc. felt like a grand harvest celebration.  Regina bought corn and tomatoes while I bought purslane and beets and radishes--since I loyally get my the corn and tomatoes closer to home.

Our next stop was the Hester Street Market where Regina got to realize her food aspirations--and I happily participated.   We each had a half of a lobster roll from Luke's (at the Hester Street flea market), I got a french caramel macaroon and iced coffee--made in the latest style and Regina had some remarkable lemon poppy seed ice cream.  

Waking through Chinatown, I couldn't resist baby bok choy and garlic chives, and we both bought bar-b-que chicken wings for a late night snack.


Then back through the Lincoln Tunnel--Regina wove her way uptown through secret viaducts to zip us effortlessly to New Jersey.  Back in Montclair, I packed up my car and headed home, arriving just as night fell.   

Journal: August 20. Concrete Dries. Wiring. Drinks iin Montclair

Before re-building porch,  we have to think about wiring.  I don't really need a light on the porch, but guests do like a little illumination to guide them to their cars.   There had been spotlights on the corner of the porch, and lights on the garage and most remarkably---there is a light inside the gazebo--a wire in a buried pipe connects it to the garage lights--a flip of the switch on the porch lights them all.

The wire to the gazebo seems fine, but everything else needs to be re-done.  Not just the outside wiring, but that of the entire house.  Wires now head out in many mysterious directions from a fuse box in the downstairs non-working bathroom.   Willie, the electrician and George muttered over these wires for quite some time. Fuses will be replaced with circuit breakers, the amount of circuitry--is that the right word?--will have to be increased--and new wires installed.

After all those wiring thoughts, I drove to Regina's house in Bloomfield.  She had hoped we could fit in a restaurant dinner and two(!!) movies--but worried that we wouldn't have time to make the first movie, we ended up whipping up a quick meal of left-overs --grilled vegetables, steak, tofu, corn salad that I'd brought, along with excellent green beans and bok choy from Regina's fridge. 

Regina, Liz, Kate, Michelle and Naomi

We got to the Montclair theater barely in time for the beginning of Get Low.  Robert Duvall, Bill Murray, Sissy Spacek,  about dying and regrets in the 1930/s.  what more could we want?  We were two happy movie goers.  As we were getting into Regina's car, three young women asked us if we knew where they could get a cab.  One thing led to another.   It turned out they were visiting from Chicago.  they'd come for a baby shower for a friend who had just moved here.   Kate, Liz and Michelle, each had a three year old and a one year old and a husband back in Chicago--this was their first girls' outing.  They needed a ride back to their hotel.  We offered to drive them, and they then insisted on buying us drinks.  We agreed and the five of us had a fine old time.   The waiter took this picture--it's dark and murky, but it's all I have.

After bidding our new friends good night, Regina and I returned to her house where I happily began my assigned task of catching up with this season's Mad Men episodes.

Journal: August 19. Watchng the concrete dry.

George and Chris mixed up the concrete and poured it into the holes this morning.  They left a little after noon--as they'd just be sitting around waiting for it to set.

Realized I didn't know the difference between concrete and cement.  George explained that concrete is a mixture of sand, gravel, water and cement. Turns out most of us have long been confused on this subject.   Here's an official explanation bursting with details:

What is the difference between cement and concrete?
Although the terms cement and concrete often are used interchangeably, cement is actually an ingredient of concrete. Concrete is basically a mixture of aggregates and paste. The aggregates are sand and gravel or crushed stone; the paste is water and portland cement. Concrete gets stronger as it gets older. Portland cement is not a brand name, but the generic term for the type of cement used in virtually all concrete, just as stainless is a type of steel and sterling a type of silver. Cement comprises from 10 to 15 percent of the concrete mix, by volume. Through a process called hydration, the cement and water harden and bind the aggregates into a rocklike mass. This hardening process continues for years meaning that concrete gets stronger as it gets older.
So, there is no such thing as a cement sidewalk, or a cement mixer; the proper terms are concrete sidewalk and concrete mixer.

Concrete Drying

Craig Seligman, the piano tuner came by to go fishing with his son Craig.  Told me that his entire shop burned down--fire caused by a mirror in shop reflecting sun starting blaze--many pianos up in smoke.

Waiting for concrete to dry, also waited for Carl the plumber to discuss possibilities for oil tank under porch. He arrived around four and agreed that the best thing would be to get a new oil tank and put it in the room downstairs with the well pump and pressure tank.  (The old oil tank is serviceable, but is under the porch--and if we build the porch properly, it will be buried and impossible to service it anything goes wrong.  One surprise after another, but so far nothing has been that difficult to solve.

The concrete dried just in time to get soaked by a completely unexpected rain (I hope it dried--I don't have a great eye for these things).  And in case any one is wondering.  I'd assumed the support posts would be inserted in the concrete--but that is not the case.  They just rest on it.

Journal: August 18. Porch progress.

Hard to see what the progress here is, but there has been much digging and rock removing, and tomorrow concrete will be poured so five new porch columns can be set in place.

Waiting for concrete

The house, minus a porch, or more accurately, the house with a long rectangular stone lined pit in front of it actually looks 100 times better than it did in its last iteration with sagging roof, dangling bits of siding and general disorganization.  It does finally feel like it is becoming a proper house.

Tonight Steve and Karen Altman drove out for a second chance dinner.  Steve was fully recovered from whatever had laid him low when they visited last week. They live in Boonton, maybe 35 minutes from here, which might make them my closest neighbors among my old east coast friends.  (I know Steve since elementary school in Jersey City--PS #17).   I'd grilled up huge quantities of food--rib-eye steaks as well as eggplant, zucchini, red and yellow peppers, corn and tofu (why tofu?  did I think the steak might not provide enough protein--perhaps I'm always alert to the possibility of a surprise vegetarian moment).   Also a tomato, cucumber and bread salad.  For dessert huge bowls of many flavors of ice cream.

We had a fine time.  Karen was a champion dish washer--the kitchen was spotless by the time they left.  Leaving was a bit tricky since there is no front door (due to substitution of open pit for porch)--but I'd slithered out on the door sill and turned on the garage and gazebo lights (as well as the porch lights which are temporarily somewhere in the pit)--and was able to easily usher them to their car. 

As they drove away, and I returned to the house, it suddenly sounded as if an army had arrived upstairs.  Not possible.  The noise felt as if it were inside, but opening the back door, I realized it was not in the house at all, but somewhere across the fields.  I have been quite unconcerned about being here alone on these dark country nights, but the rolling noises were worrisome.  As the booms continued for ten, fifteen, twenty minutes and more, I slowly realized there must be fireworks at the nearby baseball field. A quick search on line confirmed that indeed, it was the night of a  a grand fireworks extravaganza  (as well as ladies night).    No lights were visible in the sky--but those booms did fly through the night air.  
Tomorrow the concrete pouring!!

Journal: August 17. Disappearing Porch

Lots of porch activity today.  Complete demolition of flooring.  I do not participate--George, John and Chris all working, though George comes downstairs with questions at regular intervals.

The porch is a serious trouble zone.  It was never built properly, and never repaired well.  Water runs underneath it into the foundation of the house and the kitchen.

Right now, because it's been collapsing for years, and especially today, when there is no porch at all, the window over the sink is actually letting in light.  Usually, there is next to no light in the kitchen.  It is one loony and unattractive room.

Floorless porch with petunias and oil tank

The ultimate plan (as if we have an ultimate plan) is to move the kitchen upstairs to the back parlor.  We haven't figured out how we'll configure the downstairs, but it will, I am sure, be completely amazing.  But for the moment we have to think a bit about this kitchen.  At one point, long ago, George had suggested that we could perhaps leave a channel of sorts under the porch that would let some light in.  Today we decided that wouldn't really work.  The best way to keep moisture out and tighten up the house would be to have the porch more or less filled in (I think). 
In the long run this is fine, as the kitchen won't be the kitchen, but for the short run,  I'll miss those little spots of light.

We also have to figure out what to do with the oil tank.  It's now at the far end of the porch.  It was under the flooring. Should we keep it there?  Move it outside next to the propane?  Move it downstairs.  Pros and cons for each option--nothing incredibly compelling or awful.  Looks like we can't really manage completely without oil, even if we do lots of wood burning, solar power, etc.

Getting the beam up, which completely straightened the roof, and pulling out all that rotten porch wood does make it feel like we are beginning to revive the house. Very excellent, all of it.  

Journal: August 16. New beam on porch.

Happy house with new beam raising roof

Delivered Jackie to bus at 6:55.  Revieweing yesterdays purchases, discovered that meat thermometer was in fact a grill thermometer--to measure the temperature of the grating on the grill. I do not need to measure that.  Back to Homegoods.  Wire shelf rack--not terrible--but also not quite right.  Wrong place to keep cosmetics, toothpaste, etc.  Better to build shelf next to sink.  Asked George his advice--and wonder of wonders he discovered that mirror over the sink was in fact door to a medicine cabinet--fully stocked with melting cough drops and other detritus.  Easily cleaned.  Bathroom shelf problem mostly resolved.

Two big envelopes in PO Box--one from cousin Anita (the oldest of all the cousins, as she proudly describes herself) with six black and white photos of my first birthday party--a great gathering of glaubermans here in Newton--and the corrected deed from Arnie which had to be notarized.

Had it notarized at Hampton Town Hall--easy as can be--returned to post office to mail it back (spoke to laura -- she'd signed it last week--neither of us was quite sure what was being corrected--but we just plough ahead) and then to Homegoods for returns and purchase of two more rag rugs.

While I am shopping and being notarized, George and John making huge progress on porch. New beam in. Old beam out. The roof is no longer sagging. It feels like the house is organizing itself--standing straighter, pulling back its shoulders.  Hard to recall that sagging roof, the drooping slabs of aluminum.  "It didn't do it by itself," says John.  Indeed it didn't.

Journal: August 15th. Shopping in the Rain.

Jackie arrived on bus at 12:30.  A quick drive in the rain to look at house with Glacier Blue (dark grey to me) siding.  It is a grey and dreary day.

We return home.  I make cucumber and radish sandwiches on onion pockets.  I had always thought these soft rolls with slivers of onions were an exotic New York City delicacy.  My aunt Pearl used to bring them when she visited.  (Is that possible?  I don't know).  I had so associated them with long ago family gatherings, I'd never thought of them as every day food.  And yet--there they were in Shop-Rite.  In a little compartment right next to many varieties of bagels.  Sam and I had eaten these sandwiches on Thursday---and I'd been distressed that the rolls were sold out on return trips to shop-rite Friday and Saturday.  Praise be, there was a huge pile at noon on Sunday, when I stopped in before meeting Jackie at the big parking lot in back of Shop-Rite--our local bus stop.  We also had  Also tomato salad--and some left-over grilled chicken with the plum chutney.   Very delicious.

In hopes that the sun would come out, I'd hung a load of laundry on the line.  But--i had to admit there was no hope of sun-drying.  So--into the dryer with the laundry and off to Homegoods with Jackie for some rainy day shopping.
Jackie was looking for some simple picture frames.  I need many many things--but am reluctant to buy anything  because eventually the entire house will be dismantled and reconstructed.  There is so much stuff here already--it seems crazy to add more items which we wil just have to keep moving around.

I did however buy a huge and excellent Le Creuset casserole 5.5 quarts (it was the only one there--it was a seconds and on clearance to boot--an excellent deal)   and a sweet little Indian rag rug, a meat thermometer, 2 light green cups, 2 big pillows and a wire standing shelf for the bathroom.  Jackie got a rug and a bright blue paring knife.   We are not shopping pros but we are trying.

We were trying so hard, we stopped at Wal-mart--where we got some ridiculously cheap pillows and a can of Campbell's tomato soup.

Then home to cook ourselves a delicious dinner--sauteed tilapia with a tomato, onion, green bean stew (cooked in le creuset), corn, tomato salad and fried plantains.

Journal: August 14. A day of many airports. Jude's birthday visit.

Bee Balm

Not much house work, but lots of goings-on.

Loosestrife (dastardly invader)

Woke up at dawn to take Sam to airport.  He'd discovered at the very last minute that his fight to Florida (to pick up his grandmother to bring her back to New York on Sunday)  was from JFK--not La Guardia. This would not have been a terrible problem--but it is about twenty minutes further to JFK, and our brains were too early morning sluggish to make the adjustment.  Still, we assumed there would not be any traffic into Manhattan at 6am on a Saturday morning.  We were WRONG WRONG WRONG.  Construction on the West Side Highway brought the GW Bridge to a standstill.  We sat there for over an hour.

Even with the delays, we did get there in time.  I drove off sure Sam was on his way.     
I'd planned  to drive through Brooklyn and lower Manhattan, but the highway signs--East, West, Eastern Long Island, Verrazano and RFK  bridges, were so delirious, I exited the curling highways.  I was parked at a gas station doing some navigation research when my phone rang.

It was Sam. He had indeed made it to the plane in time, but due to some failures of internet interfaces and other complications,  they had no record of his ticket.  His seat was to be occupied by another intrepid traveller and there were no other Jet Blue  flights from JFK to Sarasota.    Confusion reigned until the bewildered but benevolent airport gods figured out he could fly from Newark at 3pm.  Since I was still in the neighborhood, and didn't have to dash back to Newton, I turned around and picked him once again at JFK.

Alas, by the time we reached Manhattan, the entire city was in deep gridlock---my little gps navigator showed all cross town streets as well as all tunnels and bridges at a complete standstill.  And, to complicate things a bit further, my friends Jude and Alexander were driving to Newton from Philadelphia for a birthday visit.  Scheduled to arrive early afternoon.  Of course, in the end, it all worked out.  We had breakfast in the east village.    The traffic lightened a bit as more and more Manhattanites made it out of the city.  I got Sam to Newark in plenty of time--Jude and Alexander had been delayed themselves so my lateness was invisible.

We'd cooked so much on Friday, it scarcely mattered that I arrived home six hours later than planned).   We  set up a table in the backyard and had a grand feast before taking a flower-filled evening walk, returning home just as darkness fell.

No pictures allowed of many routes leading to and from airports--due to fear of terrorists snapping and bombing away.  instead  you can look at loosestrife and  bee balm, both growing in grand profusion these mid-August days.

Journal: August 13. Garbage. Bookshelves. Twilight walk.

Sam's last day for a while.  George and Co. aren't here today--he's gone to the shore with his kids--all is quiet.  We pack up our usual six garbage bags and drop them at the end of the road as well as one moldy  blue chair, moldy table covers and who knows what else.

Then off to the dump with the recyclables--lots of cardboard from the new windows, more moldy books, etc.

I've been putting off going through the books on the shelves in the living rooms--so we did that--wiping down the shelves, tossing some books, pretty low-grade work.

Sam is flying to Sarasota to bring Grandma Betty to all the Jacoby's gathering next week in Laurel.  His flight leaves at 8am, so we are planning an early night.  Early night means very early dinner or late lunch.  We are getting better at the grill and make ourselves a feast of grilled chicken thighs, corn, vegetables, etc.  Then -- in the new favorite iteration of our evening walk--we drive to the hyper humus parking area and repeat our favorite walk to the third huge lake--a riot of loosestrife, bee balm, yellow mustard, fields of waving cat tails.  Completely surprising landscape--an endless marsh surrounded by fields, forests and rolling hills.

Journal: August 12. Did they scare the hell out of you? Chimney inspection. More cousins.

George, John, and Chris arrive early to keep working on porch. Hunter and Mark from Luna Chimneys arrive to inspect chineys.  George had told me I should do this before proceeding.  The plan was to inspect the three chimneys.  They set to work in the front parlor with a video cameras, vacuums and a scope. In olden days, these inspections were done by guys covered with soot, scrambling in and out of chimneys (think Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins). Today, they are as clean as can be--the process is similar to medical examinations where cameras on tubes are inserted into various orifices and happily send out pictures of all sorts of intestinal woes.

The chimneys, alas, are seriously ailing.  Their report was not encouraging. Chimney codes began to be enforced in the 1880's--maybe 80 years after my chimneys were built. It would perhaps cost about $20,000 to bring the chimney up to code.

"Are the other two chimneys basically the same?" I asked. Of course they were. At $200 an inspection, I suggested we stop the process right there.

Ed, the boss was on his way. He told me that using the chimneys in their present state would most likely burn down the house.  Pointing out the wooden mantelpiece, he warned that could catch fire in a minute--and that was just the beginning.  He also suggested the whole house might be on the edge of collapse and strongly recommended an engineer take a look at things before we went any further.

By the end of our conversation, it was clear I'd have to start learning fast about wood-burning stoves.  So much for chimneys.

I was, I must admit, quite shaken by all of it.  Just as progress was being made, huge obstacles were once again looming ahead.  My cousins Gilda and Jennifer were arriving soon.  I had shopping to do, preparations to make, and new worries about the house burning to the ground.

The skies were dark.  Rain imminent.  Logan arrived to do some tree clearing and work on grading the patio stones, and the astounding Dave Gommoll, volunteer mower, and semi-retired engineer arrived with his tractor mower.

"Oh, Dave," said I.  "The chimney inspectors were just here."  "Oh, did they scare the hell out of you?" he asked.  Somehow I found that extremely comforting.  And when Logan recounted a similar tale, and described how he'd installed a wood stove himself.  A bit of equilibrium restored--just in time for arrival of cousins. 

I hadn't seen Gilda in at least fifty years.  I got an e-mail from her--out of the blue--a month or so ago I'd found an old program announcing a concert in April, 1931 of a fourteen year old soprano, Sylvia Berman, singing at the Waldorf Astoria with the Manhattan Symphony Orchestra.   Sylvia is Gilda's mother. My father for years would recount that William Morris, the agent, not the agency, heard her sing and offered to make her a pop star. She only wanted to sing opera. That didn't happen and she sold cosmetics at B. Altman's instead.  My father repeated this as cautionary tale, but who's to know?

After living and working in Manhattan for many years, Gilda is now retired and living with her partner in Peekskill, NY. Her daughter Jennifer, was visiting from Asheville, North Carolina, was visiting and they both drove out on this gray and rainy day. Jenn is an actress, was in Guiding Light or Search for Tomorrow at the age of 14, and continued as a working actress for many years, living in Los Angeles for a good part of that time.   A few years ago, she moved with her partner, an assistant director to Asheville.
Sam has revived my father's old 16 mm movie projector. My father took millions of feet of home movies.   Choosing one at random the other day, Sam found the footage of my first birthday party--a grand Glauberman gathering held right here.   Gilda was there with her parents.

Jenn and Sam

After a fine lunch, we ran the film.  Gilda's father died when she was four---she has next to no memory of him--but there he was at my first b-day party holding three year old Gilda in his arms.

Spanning decades, the four of us spoke for hours filling in all sorts of family facts and figures.

The rain got heavier and heavier.  Logan had to stop, the porch workers had a bit of shelter, and the intrepid Dave mowed the entire expanse of lawn.  All in all, a very fine day.

Journal: August 11. More rotting porch. Cousins in New York.

 

Sarah, Sam, James and Scott at Congee Village

Porch work continues.
George and John build elaborate apparatus of jacked up pieces of wood to support sagging roof as they prepare to install new mighty beam.

My wireless charger appears to have died. I dash over to local Verizon outlet, but of course they can do nothing. I will have to go to Rockaway Mall where I bought it. Could be a lot worse. Mall is about half an hour away, just off of 80. I can easily stop en route.

George worries that perhaps Sam and I will stumble through all this construction when we return late this evening, but I assure him I will remember the porch is full of holes and head off towards the big city.

The stop at Rockaway completely successful. Young clerk is mystified by non-working charger. I often feel guilty i these encounters, thinking perhaps I've bruised some delicate equipment--but this time I know I am innocent. The charger has just been sitting quietly for weeks--transmitting power from my weak electrical lines to the little wireless device which beams messages to my computer. Suddenly it stopped. I had filed the receipt in my plastic file box-along with all the old photographs and memorabilia we've uncovered, so I am well prepared. A short wait. A new charger. And I am on my way.

Third trip to La Guardia in two weeks. I can do it now without my wise telephone navigator--GW Bridge to FDR Drive to RFK (previously--and perhaps forever known as Triborough Bridge) and on to Terminal B (or is it C?).
Arrive at airport in excellent time.  Sam and I drive into city, arrive minutes before six--perfect tie to get parking place almost right across the street from Congee Village Bowery Restaurant where we are meeting Sarah and cousins James and Scott Jacoby for dinner.

First a little window shopping followed by happy hour beers on Elizabeth Street.  Most jolly dinner--extraordinarily delicious chicken--deep fried (but we didn't even know it) with garlic slices and many delicious chinese spices--and excellent family catching up all around.  Sarah and the cousins headed off for more good times, as Sam and I drove back to Newton--were there in less than an hour, and carefully avoided falling into holes on porch.

Journal: August 10. Porch dilemnas. Vinyl ceiling expedition.

The vinyl ceiling siding in Stillwater!

Another hot day. George arrives later than usual because of delay in lumber delivery. As we wait for the wood, George suggests that we re-think plans to keep wooden porch ceiling as there is too much wreckage, rot and just poor work in all that roofing. He recommends a vinyl material that mimics wood -and offers to take me to a house (that has the glacier blue siding I like as a bonus) so I can see the vinyl in person. He knows that although I do not want a plastic house--my finances make it the only viable alternative--and he also knows that with my aging vision--from a distance the plastic is a good enough stand-in for wood-to trick most of us. And, of course, there is always the compelling no-maintenance argument. Most people (including, according to my sporadic research, the siding man for "This Old House") use vinyl siding to free them from the travails of house painting forever.

The truck from Blue Ridge lumber yard in Stillwater, arrives before ten with its load of a very long beam as well as some serious columns.

Logan arrives with plans to stay for many hours--he'll begin by removing the stump he left near the lake and move into straightening out the drainage on the patio. Johnny will continue getting rid of rotten roof wood and George and I head out to Stillwater for my studies in plastic.

As I'm sure George knew, once I saw the ceiling material, there was no point in arguing. Although I'd brought my camera, I'd left it in the car--about six feet away. In the name of efficiency, I used my clever phone which is in my hand a good deal of the time to take many pictures of the glacier blue siding, the deep red doors and the ceiling.

The pictures were all curiously colorless. Looking back through other recent photos, I noticed that many of them shared this quality. Perhaps good for art, but not so great for color identification. I knew I must have re-set some camera function, but it was all a bit of a mystery.

Eventually, after pushing many buttons, I discovered that I had somehow chosen a "sepia" option. This explains the mushroom picture of August 8th, as well as the picture of Dave mowing.

Sepia as it may be, the picture is an accurate enough depiction of the joys of vinyl. One more step into my plastic universe.

Journal: August 9. Very rotten porch roof beam

The soon-to-be-replaced rotting timber.

Saw first hummingbird--dashing from flower pot to flower pot first thing this morning--hooray!!

Well that was perhaps the good news for the day. George and Johnny, beginning the work on the porch, discovered that the beam on which the whole roof theoretically rests is as rotten as can be. Worse than they expected. A setback--but I have to admit, I've assumed they would discover such things ("I didn't expect it to be this bad," George says). To make matters worse, the rafters don't even extend to the beam--and the whole business smells of the bats who must have lived there for many years.

George and Johnny spend much time in theoretical discussion over possible paths--none of it is terribly clear to me--and although I'd like to think I'd want to be on top of all of this, I'm just as happy I realize, to let the details drift by.

Chris is here for a bit. He shows me how to remove and put on bag for lawn mower--and also how to raise and lower blades. let us hope I remember this for the next round.

George leaves early. His daughter Rachel has terrible poison ivy--he is taking her home, ordering the necessary roof beams and returning in the morrow.

Johnny stays behind to paint the new windows in the study and to clean up the masses of debris that are rapidly accumulating on the porch--and I mostly try to sit very still so as not to notice the rising temperatures and humidity.

Journal: August 8. Mushroom control

White mushrooms growing on bench

Quiet and delicious Sunday. It is still hot and muggy, but there are already glimmers of the end of summer. Yellowed leaves are drifting down from the walnut tree in the back yard. Surprising amid all the lushness. Due to inadequacy of memory and lack of weather imagination, the shifts of season will perpetually surprise me.

The car which I'd lent Logan the night before was back in its spot by 8am--turned out his father had called as he was heading out the driveway, so he just turned around and was picked up. Spent the morning hours organizing and filing the old papers and documents that have been emerging from old drawers, folders, etc. Perhaps because thesmells of general mustiness infused with old bat aromas have been dissipating, I was struck with the moldy stale smell of these old photographs and documents. Should I set them out in the sun to air out?

Finished kitchen cleaning (well, finished is an exageration), but cleaned enough to get around to making corn salad from the corn that never got grilled on Friday night

At noon, George arrived to meet with Johnny--the man who will do the grading--the plan is to change some of the slopes and grades around the house so water doesn't flow in quite so happily. There are many points where water runs up to the edge of the walls and occasionally seeps right on through. Towards this same end, we're getting rid of the chimney and fireplace in the den--and the concrete steps and patio outside of the master bedroom.

At this very moment, due to the splendid rain we had last Sunday and the resultant accumulation of moisture, there are now some lovely little mushrooms growing on the wooden bench in the den.

The work for the coming week is to tear down the porch and re-build it. Once that is done, the re-grading will begin.

I set out to mow the backyard in the late afternoon. Again, due to inadequacies of memory, couldn't quite manage to lower the blades, so although I mowed, the blades were set so high--that although I cut down the sumac and the tallest grasses, the lawn scarcely looks mowed. I'll get a mowing lesson in the morrow--and will eventually rectify all errors. Now onto the new week...

Journal: August 7th. Propane, cousin Naomi visits, State Fair and more. .

The first task of the day: get propane.  The chicken from last night is less than half-cooked. Cousin Naomi (nee Naomi Glauberman) is driving out from Hackensack.  My plan is to get the propane--cook up food that didn't get cooked last night--and then?

Not clear.  I'd gotten a lessen in propane tank removal and attachment from fisherman Rick the night before, but didn't quite recall it.  I brought the tank to Gasorama, got it filled and brought it down the hill in the wheelbarrow--but reading the warning filled instructions for installation, I was filled with fear.  Called Laura for propane advise.  No answer.  Then called Logan--I was having trouble with part identification--what exactly do they mean by valve?  The one I'm supposed to turn to the left?

Perfectly installed tank

Logan is home to answer my queries.  It's of course ridiculously easy.  One more suburban mystery mastered.

A short while later, Dave arrives with his lawn-mower.  His mowing had been interrupted the other day when a chain broke-and he has returned to finish the job.

As he mows away, cousin Naomi arrives.  Like several recent guests, she has been suffering from an upset stomach, so barely eats my fine propane grilled food.  She's wearing sandals, so a country walk is not a great idea, but Logan had reminded me that the  Fair had just opened in Augusta.  So off we went--two Naomi Glaubermans to the New Jersey State Fair.  My first memories of cotton candy and mid-way games (throwing balls at wooden bottles, etc) are of this Fair--but we never even make it to the Mid-way.  Due to my various house obsessions, I end up having long discussions with landscapers, chimney installers, and only get the briefest look at prize cows and vegetables before it's time to leave.  Naomi doesn't want to drive in the dark--and this is a desire to which I am most sympathetic.

When we return from the Fair, Logan is at the house with Gabrielle.  He's been planning to cut down one of the trees near the lake all day, and manages to get that done just before night falls.

Journal: August 6th. More garbage. Garlic. Dinner.

Garbage chores in the morning. No recycling, just  four bags of garbage to the end of the road along with a chewed up speaker and large moldy cushions. Then off to shopping for dinner with Regina and Karen and Steven Altman. The organic farm was open around the corner from the post office. I'd thought it's opening and closings were completely random, but the young woman sorting beans informed me they open  on weekends. Although she was there,  the basic payment system was the same. Money put in a slot--beneath a sign that says--don't have current change or a check? pay the next time you're here. I did have correct change for my two lovely garlic bulbs, beautiful stripped zucchini and funny little cucumber seconds.

The moved clothesline doing its job.

Back at the house, things moving along.  Clothesline moved in preparation for porch demolition.
Regina arrives to help prepare dinner.  She makes a panzella--a tomato and bread salad with fresh mozzarella and cucumbers.  I'm grilling vegetables--asparagus, eggplant, onions, zucchini, peppers and corn--and chicken and tofu as well.  Oh--and there's cheese--and smoked oysters with jalapeno jelly, olives, etc. for appetizers.

Karen and Steve arrive.  He seems to be coming down with something--I have a short conversation with him (as I grill) about my fears that I might run out of propane.  He takes to the bed--and sure enough I run out of propane.  Luckily, there's so much food, we did quite well without the corn and chicken and tofu. Steve, of course, eats nothing, but we are eventually joined by fisherman Rick who has a bite or two.

Despite a fine assortment of setbacks, a good time was had by all.

Journal: August 5, 2010. One Chimney Down.

Chris finished taking down most of the chimney (it can't all be removed until we deal with the grading and the siding).  The house looks much better without it.  It is a significant change.  Unlike most of the house, I do remember that chimney being built in the fifties.  Or more exactly, I remember the construction of the new room and fireplace to which it was attached.

Before it was built, I have vague memories of a dark earthen space--was it a long ago root cellar? My parents had it  transformed into a mahogany paneled room, with a big Zenith television and an even bigger picture window in which we spent most of our indoor time.

The years have not been kind to that project.  Poor planning, poor drainage and poor construction created a mess of a room.  Chimney removal is the first step in its rehabilitation.  (All that book cleaning was the real first step, but we're now talking structural) 

Once the bricks were down, Chris, cleaned and stacked all the intact ones in this most impressive pile.  Its clean rectangular lines are startling. I've gotten so used to sloping floors, crooked door jambs, and the complete absence of right angles.

Journal: August 4th. Windows., Chimney. Laundry and lawn.

Alone again in the country.  Well, scarcely alone.  George and his son Chris are both at work. George, continuing the installation of the new windows with warnings, while Chris has begun taking down the chimney for the fireplace in the den which was in dreadful shape. 
The other three chimneys built two hundred years ago, don't really function, but they do look like proper chimneys and the equally old fireplaces, to which they connect, despite dripping pink insulation, are basically intact.  In contrast, the fireplace in the den, known to us as "the new room" along with its chimney, though built one hundred and fifty years later, is a wet and crumbling mess.  It really had to go.  

Chimney half-removed

While Chris and George worked, I did a laundry, which successfully dried before it started raining, and even managed to do some lawn mowing.    I even re-filled the lawn mower with gas.  I didn't mow as much lawn  as much as I'd intended but was suitably hot and sweaty before stopping. Hanging clothes to dry and mowing the lawn!!! Who would have imagined any of this?

Journal: August 3rd. Hair cut, lobster roll and Zabar's before driving back.

My minimal New York plans had included breakfast with Margie, and a last minute haircut at one with Izumi on East 7th Street.

Margie canceled, giving me some welcome New York quiet time.  Due to the heaviness of my possessions, I decided to leave them on Wooster Street so I could walk easily to and from haircut.

Oh, there are few things that give me more pleasure than walking in New York City.  It is indeed my natural habitat--so much so that I forget to take pictures of my many excellent encounters--perhaps I will rectify that eventually but for now I can only report that I got an excellent haircut followed by a sublime lobster roll with root beer and potato chips--pure heaven -- next door at Luke's.  Reclaimed my bag and brought it to my happily parked car on 84th street.
How could I be on 84th Street and not visit Aunt Debbie, 94 year old widow of Uncle Mike, and mother of Jeannie.  Jeannie had told me she most likely would not remember me, but with just the slightest reminder, she knew exactly who I was and we had a splendid visit.

She appears to be in perfect health, and mentally, she is quite all right.  In fact, she laments about her good health, wishing that she could manage to exit this particular existence in which she spends most of her time lying on her bed, doing cross-words puzzles.  "I just do the easiest ones, now," she says, claiming she doesn't have the patience for anything challenging.

Who knows how you're supposed to grow old?  I would think she'd be much happier in some kind of group setting where she could talk to others.  "No, no.  I would hate the regimentation," she says.  More likely she just can't imagine any change.  She has, after all, lived in that apartment for decades.  Why move now?  Why not?

Old reliable windows

After my allotted twenty or so minutes (she does tire), I left for a Zabar's run before returning home.  I'd promised myself this treat (oh--what a day of seafood treats--first the lobster roll in honor of my non-existent new england heritage and then whitefish salad and herring in sour cream--my true heritage indeed.  Oh--and a loaf of fresh rye and assorted cheeses.

New risky ones

With the promise of a fabulous dinner/snack awaiting me on my return, I walked back to my car to discover that despite my obsessive locking of all doors and the double locking of the trunk, I'd left the back window open.  No harm done.  I don't think there was anything to steal, but the car, open window, California plates, Obama sticker and all,  sat undisturbed for two full days.

Got home before dark.  Had a brief pang of regret on sighting old wooden windows with their many panes stacked by garage. I did love those windows, though they failed miserably at all basic window duties, they did look great.  but I can take comfort that my new windows, vinyl though they may be, might provide some excitement of their own, as they all
bear many warnings.  Still, if the open car window led to no trougle in New York City, it is unclear what dangers an open window (with excellent screens, mind you)  might leave me open to here in the country.

Journal: August 2nd. LaGuardia again. New York City visits.

Sam with trimmed beard and haircut

George and Chris arrive around 9 am, just as Sam and I are leaving to drive to La Guardia.  He's flying off to Milwaukee, where he'll spent the night at Carrie's family house in Shorewood before driving to a distant island in Michigan with Carrie, her dad and two younger brothers for a week long canoe trip.

We've rehearsed this drive the week before with Carrie, so now we scarcely need our Droid navigator as we transition from 80 to 95 to the FDR Drive to the RFK Bridge to La Guardia.  Lots of house work will continue in our absence.

I'm meeting Nancy at her apartment for lunch, and manage to get myself to 79th street at the exact moment Alternate Side of the Street parking went into effect.  Cars are neatly double-parked on the north side of the street, and I despair of finding parking for the next hour and a half.  No--I don't despair--I like to imagine I once had excellent parking karma and although I haven't called on it lately, I'm hoping it might still exist.  And indeed--as I drive up and down the streets from Broadway to Central Park West, I eventually get into another zone -- the streets had been thoroughly cleaned an hour earlier.  Of course, these coveted spots are already taken, but the parking gods are smiling--a huge truck pulls out--and three spots open on West 84th Street.  It is Tuesday at noon, and I can remain there--if I so desire--until 8 am on Thursday.  Praise be.  I am so elated that I practically float to Nancy's--stopping only--in a bit of enthusiasm more suited to a 6 year old boy-- to take pictures of the fire fighters and hook and ladders  engines clogging  West 82nd Street.

Nancy's mother, an artist, died last March, and Nancy's apartment is now overflowing with her quite extraordinary work.  I get to take in a small sampling before we head out for an excellent Thai lunch on Broadway.

As Nancy returns to work, I wander through Barnes and Noble and Zabar's (where I buy what I hope will be excellent red ceramic knives) while waiting for a call from my cousin Jeannie who lives in the neighborhood.

Jeannie and her husband, Raymond have just completed a massive remodel of their always excellent apartment--sweeping views in three directions--and we have a fine visit.  Our parents were sister and brother--and we are just one week apartment--so there is always family business--both ancient and contemporary to catch up on.  She promises to try to make it to the country some day soon and off I go.

I'd thought I might do some walking, but despite my "light" packing, my laptop--which I now bring everywhere--is heavier than I want it to be--so I scotch (is that a word?) all walking plans--and take the subway straight from Central Park West to Jackie and Andre's in Soho.  Sarah meets us there--and she and Jackie and I have an excellent Sushi meal at the Sun Cafe in Tribeca.  After dinner, Sarah bikes off to Brooklyn and Jackie and I return to her house, where I'll spend the night. 


Sam and I leave Sam flies to Milwaukee Parking on upper west side. Lunch with Nancy. visit with cousin Jeannie. Dinner with sarah and Jackie at sun Cafe.

Journal: August 1. Cemetery. Airplane Tickets. Thunder Storm. Flood.

Oh dear. The days are  flying by. To say nothing of the hours. The plan for today was to sort through the piles of papers and files pulled from corroding boxes, rescued from beneath squirrel nests and file them neatly away. Also plans to shave Sam's beard and cut his hair. Perhaps these tasks will be accomplished in the five hours remaining before midnight.


So far, we have gone in many other directions.  Sam is flying to Milwaukee tomorrow and then going on a canoe trip with Carrie, her father, and two younger brothers. The plan was to drive him very early in the morning to catch his 7:45 flight at La Guardia. At some point late last night he discovered that the plane was actually landing in Milwaukee at 7:45--leaving NY around 6am. We would have had to leave here around 3am--this might have been even beyond our loony capabilities. He spent many hours this morning in an ultimately successful quest to change his ticket to  noon. 

Finally, with the plane situation straightened out and my New York plans taking shape, we could proceed with the afternoon at hand.

We had been planning a quick trip to buy provisions for dinner--spinach to go with the ricotta cheese in the fridge for    for a quick pasta--and were looking forward to a leisurely perusal of the Sunday Times.  I had also promised Sam a drive to the cemetery.

My grandfather, both my parents and my Aunt Frieda are all buried in the Jewish section of the Hardyston cemetery, about six miles from the house.  This would be his first visit to the resting place of his ancestors.

Rain had been forecast, and the sky was growing dark, so we decided to postpone paper and pasta and go directly to the cemetery.

This hilltop in Hardyston is not where I'd expect to find all these Glaubermans.  But there they were.  All the Jews of Newton--the Jewish families of my long ago childhood--were there as well.

The Friedmans, Pete and Claire accompanied by their two grandchildren who died of Tay-Sachs in the early sixties, the Seplows, who owned the liquor store, the Fogelsons of the bakery, the Churgins—he was a tailor—maybe she sewed as well, Sid Lubert, the television repair man.  They were all accounted for in the narrow Jewish section on the far side of the Hardyston cemetery.   

 

As we approached home, the rains began. Huge bolts of thunder, and torrents, sheets of rain so thick that even the bold, ever-tailgating Sussex County drivers had to pull over. So much rain, that we had to forego newspaper and grocery purchases--and carefully drive down the rushing river of a driveway.  The rain was so heavy that I sat in the car for twenty minutes rather than make the dash to the house.

This would have been the time to do the sorting and organizing I've been putting off all week, but the rain had managed to work its way into the den.  I have learned that one of the main issues in house construction is figuring out how to keep out water--the den--which my parents had built in the early fifties in a textbook case on how to make it easy for water to permeate floors, walls, etc. Luckily all the work we'd done in the den meant that nothing was on the floor--so the water didn't cause much additional damage. Of course, it did have to be mopped up.   There went the late afternoon.